"There's a girl in my bed."
"There's a man in my room."
"Somebody's got into my room."
"Is it fire?"
"It's a public scandal."
"This man has tried to take my trousers."
"Look here, I can't go about in this kit."
"I left my wife in room i8, and I can't find her."
"I shall write to The Times."
"I protest against this indecent exhibition."
The more questions and remarks that poured down upon him, the more persistently the deputy-manager smiled. He looked about him helplessly. Hitherto in the whole of his experience all that had been necessary for him to do was to smile and promise attention, and bully his subordinates. Here was a new phase. He wished the manager had not chosen this week-end for a trip to Brighton.
The eyes of the deputy-manager roved round him like those of a trapped animal seeking some channel of escape. By a lucky chance they fell upon the fireman who was just preparing to go off duty. The deputy-manager beckoned to him; the smile had left his face, he was now talking to a subordinate.
"What's the meaning of this?" he enquired.
The fireman looked up and down the corridor. He had been at the hotel over ten years, that is, since its opening, and knew every inch of the
